


A Simple Intimacy

by My_Beating_Hart



Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zevran has a depressive episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Intimacy

When Zevran woke up, he was dismayed to realise that his misery had decided to accompany him into the waking world once again. He opened his eyes to check that Theron and Nate were both still asleep, and then he carefully withdrew his arms from around the ranger’s waist so he could roll onto his other side and stare blankly at the dawn glow peering through the windows. A low, restless ache settled in his chest and yawned open for the day, pinning him to the bed.

It didn’t take long until the other two stirred and woke, but judging how they dressed quietly and talked in whispers, they thought he was still asleep. _Good_ , a part of him reflected even as the sound of the door carefully being pulled shut made tears prick at his eyes. They hadn’t even bothered to try and wake him? Were they that busy running the keep they didn’t even whisper good morning to him? Alone with the silence of the room, Zevran curled in on himself under the covers, distractedly reaching for Theron’s pillow after a moment for something to hold onto. He closed his eyes and let the tears flow as they wished, knowing he would be alone for now until one of them deigned to check on him.

Of course, he knew how irrational he was being. They were both Wardens - the two busiest ones in the Keep, at that. They had no way of knowing he had already been lying awake and unmoving as they quietly went through their morning routines so as not to wake him. Why hadn’t he said anything when they’d gotten out of bed or were about to leave the room? But as he lay there Zevran knew why. All he would have been able to say was “ _Don’t leave._ ” and that would most likely have been followed by tears given his current state. An alarming, messy display of weakness he never submitted to when around the other two. If he had, no doubt they would have refused to leave his side and pried the thorns out of his mind and heart. At least, that was the way the scenario played out in his mind.

Zevran squeezed his eyes shut as he took a gasping breath in, crushing the pillow to his chest as if that would ease the ache inside. And yet, despite how weak and vulnerable that would make him look to the other two - a former _Crow_ , one of the best from an infamously powerful assassin's guild lying in bed and crying like a hormonal maiden, how shameful of him - that was all that he wanted. For one of them to be here with him. For Theron to be here for him the way he’d always been there for Theron. He doubted he would be able to put his misery down into words the way Theron did his nightmares. He couldn’t _quite_ pin down the exact reason that urged him to cry, only that it was strong enough for him to submit to it. But he could guess.

The two names circling his mind, now more sharp and cutting than any of his blades. Rinna. Taliesen. They were gone now, retired to memories and places he could not follow them though he had yearned to in the past. Now… Now, he supposed, as he lay there and blinked hot tears into the fabric of the bed, he had Theron and Nate to replace those gaping absences in him...

No, not replace. The wounds would always be there, even if they scarred over and remained painful to think about for the rest of his days. Theron and Nate were not mere replacements. Their love was different to Taliesen’s, certainly. Perhaps even Rinna’s. A more romantic, innocent love that wasn't a battle of barbed wit and unbridled passion after another successful job. They _loved_ him and were certain to mention it often. That made his guilt over his own stoic inability to respond in kind in as many words become an unbearable stab whenever he thought about it. Truly he was mired in the pain, wallowing in it.

They deserved better than him, surely. They deserved each other, no? Zevran sniffled pitifully to himself. Certainly, he was not the jealous type, but the idea of them enjoying each other’s company without him struck his very soul. That one day he would find himself adrift once more was a fear he didn't dare acknowledge. Was this what was making him so upset? Was this what had kept him a silent listener as they woke and went about their days, oblivious through no fault but his own?

Zevran rolled onto his back, still clutching the warm pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. _Brasca_ , why were emotions so tricky? They were as fiddly as a locked door, certainly. He had loved Rinna and Taliesen. Of that, he was certain. They had died, directly or not by his own hand. Of that, he was even more certain.

For a second, he recalled again the moment of Rinna on her knees before him, eyes wide and begging him to _listen._ The flash of the blade in his hand and Taliesen's vitriol goading it to action. The contempt and scorn of the betrayed lover delivering fair justice from on high - he closed his eyes as a fresh wave of grief washed over him. A sharper and purer agony than he had ever known before. Guilt and regret and swallowing misery that swirled and burned like acid.

Taliesin's body on the ground in some back alley of Denerim, an arrow in his throat. He should have walked away. He should have stayed in Antiva. They both should have. But that had been impossible after Rinna. He'd sought out what he hoped would be his end and trotted onto the next ship to go and meet it, the promise of leather boots a hollow one. A tear fell from the outer corner of his eye to slide towards his ears.

Why was he doing this to himself? The dead were dead. Why did they still haunt him? Zevran let out another loud, shaking breath in the luxury of the empty room. Now he had Theron and Nate. They, at least, were not dead. He had no intention of trying to kill Theron a third time, and Nate had certainly not been raised to murder in cold blood.

Whatever adventure Theron had been dragged into while they had been parted seemed to have resolved itself into the mind-numbing drudgery of political responsibilities in a keep full of soldiers and fledgling Grey Wardens. Nothing particularly life-threatening there, unless some rebellious upstart or a poisoned meal was involved. Vigil's Keep was now one of the safest and well-defended places in Ferelden outside of the Royal Palace, championed by a dutiful if wearily reluctant Hero. He could count his blessings that way.

Zevran sighed, relaxing his death grip on the pillow that smelled so much like Theron. The tears seemed to have stopped, thankfully. Again, he reminded himself: They loved him wholeheartedly. He was _loved_. Flaws and bloody past and all.

He was just about to sit up and find something to clean his face with when the bedroom door opened. He expected it to be a maid set on cleaning, so he was surprised when Theron strode in, gently kicked the door shut behind him and lost no time in pulling his tailored shirt off without sparing a cursory glance around the room. The Dalish elf was grumbling something under his breath, no doubt about how his neck itched, but the complaints ceased when his head came free of the shirt and he caught sight of Zevran on the bed. The smile of surprised welcome died away as Theron got a good look at him.

Zevran blinked, and felt a lingering tear drip down his cheek. No doubt he looked a state. He sat up then, discarding the damned pillow and wiping roughly at his face as if that would somehow make Theron forget what he’d just seen.

“Not many banns, I take it?” He asked, and winced at how broken his voice sounded. Theron was sitting beside him in an instant, a frown creasing his tattooed brow and his grey eyes bright with concern. Unsurprising; he could count the number of times over the years he’d cried openly in front of Theron on one hand.  _Brasca_ , his hair was a mess, he could feel it.

“What’s wrong?”

Zevran couldn’t help wilting at such an innocent question, and he curled in on himself again.

“I…” _Nothing, mi amor, this is nothing to trouble yourself over. Everything, actually_. _I am fine. I am not fine_. _Jode._

He felt Theron’s bare arm curl around his shoulders, radiating warmth. Helpless, he leaned into the touch and buried his head in the crook of Theron’s shoulder to hide from that concerned grey gaze.

“You were crying?” Theron offered carefully when the silence stretched on. Not exactly the most tactful way, but he’d endured worse interrogations and the Dalish never seemed to care for much subtlety, given how both Theron and Velanna were often direct in their questions.

“Yes.” Zevran answered flatly, voice muffled against the ranger’s skin. “And I am not certain how to put it all into words yet.” He added, figuring that he owed some form of explanation before Theron truly started to fret like a mother hen.

That seemed to help the other elf relax; Zevran felt some of the tension bleed out of the muscles beneath his damp cheek.

“I see. Do you want me to stay with you?”

Zevran all but held his breath at the question. Yes, of course he did. But he didn’t want to admit to it, to needing his _amor_ by his side so desperately. How weak and sentimental of him this was.

“What about the banns?” He queried, opening his eyes to stare at the dark and graceful column of Theron’s neck directly in front of him, the faint sway of his darker braids at the very edge of his vision.

“There aren’t many left," Theron answered reassuringly. Zevran let his eyes slip closed, basking in the warmth and smell of his lover and listening to the gentle rise and fall of his voice. "But I needed a break from the shirt and Eddelbrek - if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was trying to court me. They’re all busy mingling right now, it’s nothing that Nate can’t handle as Second. I should probably go tell Nate he’ll be on his own for the rest of the morning, though.” Theron sighed, breaking Zevran out of his contemplation. The blond nodded and remained sat docilely on the bed while Theron pulled his shirt back on.

“I won’t be long.” He promised, and Zevran pretended he didn’t see the faint worry in those grey eyes as he was given a final glance. The door slid closed on Theron’s booted heels, and he was alone again.

The wait was not unbearable, this time. Not when he knew it would not last all day. He took the time to wash his face and pull the restless shards of himself back to the uneasy ache in his chest where they’d always belonged. It was second nature to patch it all over with a loose smile of mischief and a pair of fresh trousers. He was certainly not whole, and perhaps never would be, but this was enough for him.

He didn’t freeze this time when the door was pushed open again. Theron leaned back against the heavy wood, and they took stock of the distance between them. When he smiled, slow but open and honest, it coaxed a response in kind from Zevran.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Theron promised, taking his shirt and boots off with a grace that suited the Warden-Commander and Arl of Amaranthine far more than Theron Mahariel. “Come here, _lath_.”

They curled up on the bed, and Zevran was mildly surprised to find himself draped on top of Theron. He certainly didn’t complain, however. Not when he was able to rest his cheek on his lover’s scarred chest and feel the gentle pull and scratch of a hand cupping the back of his skull a moment later.

“I suspect we won’t have to talk at all.” He added teasingly, letting his eyes close once again. While at any other time he would have enjoyed using this stolen time alone for more devious pursuits, today was simply not one such day. Truthfully, neither had this week so far. Theron’s other arm rested over the small of his back, keeping him close and demanding nothing.

“Mm.” The Dalish elf hummed noncommittally, and then they both grew quiet. Zevran became lost in his thoughts again - much pleasanter ones, this time - as he lay secure in his lover’s warm embrace, a firm archer’s grip. Time slowed down, as thick as honey.

There was still the hollow ache in his chest, the threat of tears still burned when his thoughts tried to backtrack and circle around the loves and losses of his past. But as he lay here, rising and falling ever so slightly as Theron breathed and lived underneath him, the gentle rubbing of his scalp; it was a real and welcome distraction from those thoughts, and a reminder of the positive ones. It was a simple intimacy that didn’t need silvered words or the pleasure of sex to distract him. It was a balm that soothed the aches and half-healed edges inside him enough to give him hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit appreciated.
> 
> Theron: "What do you do when I'm gone?"  
> Zevran: "Wait for you to get back."


End file.
